"Without seeing Sandy and Odalie?" said Hamish, his lip quivering.
"We have not the time to spare. Besides, would they let you risk it again, even for them?"
And Hamish was suddenly diverted to telling of his risks, of all the escapes, by flood and fell, that he had made;—how often he had been shot at from ambush; how he had swum rivers; how he had repeatedly hidden from the Indians by dropping himself down into the hollows of trees, and once how nearly he had come to getting out no more, the place being so strait that he could scarcely use his constricted muscles to climb up to the cavity that had let him in. He had not so much trouble on the return trip; Ensign Milne had procured for him a good horse, and a rifle—he had had a brace of pistols—the horse was a free goer—as fresh now as if he had not been a mile to-day.
"And where is he now?" asked Demeré, a look of anxiety on his face.
"At MacLeod Station, hitched there with a good saddle on him and saddle-bags half full of corn."
"Come, Hamish," said Stuart, rising, "you must be off; some Indian might find the horse."
Hamish's eyes filled with tears,—to leave Odalie and Sandy without a word! He could not endure for the men to see these tears, although they thought none the less well of him for them.
"Let me drop a tear in farewell for Odalie," he said, trying to be very funny, brushing his right eye with his right hand. "And for Sandy," his left eye with his left hand. "And Fifine," his right eye with his right hand. "And the cat," his left eye with his left hand.
There could be nothing unmanly or girlish in this jovial demonstration!
"Come, you zany!" exclaimed Stuart, affecting to think these tremulous farewells very jocose.